Leaning over me,she brushes her cauliflower curlsacross my chest.

Movement itself—imagined from one point to another,the arbitrary surfacing and vanishingof the coordinates it brings into being—is no intermezzo, but rather the everyday form of generation and of bearing witness.

Leaning over me,she brushes her cauliflower curlsacross my chest.

I see the back of her head,her body,as she crouches before me on all fours,like an animal,as I plant the trunk of my testimony in her,clear the forest,plow the field,dig trenches,raise structures—huts, barns, palaces, factories—only for the scene to collapsein the very next instant.I sink down beside her,exhausted.

Leaning over me,she brushes her cauliflower curlsacross my chest.

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